Thus Quoth the Raven
by Kanaia
Summary: Basil and Dawson are drawn into a case that is much more sinister than it first seems, and reopens the files on a case they thought had been closed, sending them to the Continent chasing after criminals who seem all too familiar...
1. The Case is Afoot!

Note to any who may have read the beginnings of the first version: the plot is quite different, as I realized mice don't eat meat. So Zisman has a new job and a new story to go with it.

CHAPTER 1.

'Drat!'

I had been comfortably dozing in my customary seat by the living-room fire, but at my friend and colleague's sharp outburst I awoke immediately.

'I say, Basil, what is it?' I inquired, though I felt sure of the cause of his dismay. He was perched on the edge of his armchair, head in hands; a chessboard lay between him and a visitor, one Selkirk by name. It was rare that Basil was ever bested at... well, at anything, really, but I surmised Selkirk must have done so. Nothing else could have caused such a profound expression of despair on my friend's face.

'I've done it!' Selkirk declared, behind the copious beard he'd been growing for months. He was a scientist by trade, a crack one at that, and he felt that a full beard gave one dignity that a mustache lacked. I am of a different opinion, but as I sport only the latter, it must be admitted I am biased slightly.

'Well done, old chap,' Basil muttered glumly from behind his hands. 'Another trophy to put up on your wall.'

'Buck up, why don't you?' Selkirk was obviously irritated by Basil's attitude. I was quite used to it. In all the years I'd spent with him, Basil always overreacted whenever he was thwarted or defeated in some manner. 'It's not as though you still haven't got the brightest brain in all London! Chess isn't the only indicator of genius, you know. If only you'd see that it isn't necessary to win at everything, Basil...'

'Ah, Selkirk,' I interjected, 'you of all people know that losing upsets him. Let him sulk a bit, it's the only solution.'

'Yes, well, I wish he'd take things a bit better. One of these days he's going to be demobilized by that little quirk of his, and it'll be the end of him.'

'Why, Selkirk!' I exclaimed. 'Why so morbid? Come on, I understand Mrs. Judson's just made a fresh pot of tea and, if my nose is not mistaken, some cheese crumpets as well. Those always seem to speed Basil's recovery.'

Selkirk let out a lengthy sigh, then nodded. 'You're right, of course, Dr. Dawson. I just worry about him sometimes.'

As I led the way to the kitchen, I remarked, 'So do we all, Selkirk my lad.'

I always thought of him as a boy, though he couldn't have been more than ten years my junior. He had long abandoned protesting this.

'Mrs. Judson,' I called, swinging open the kitchen door and poking my head through the gap, 'When you can, a few of your extraordinary crumpets wouldn't go amiss...'

She was fussing over the stove, pushing her bonnet back from her sweat-covered brow, but she glanced up at me. 'Sure thing, Doctor,' she said, breaking into a smile. 'I'll have them out in no time.'

'Thank you ever so much, dear lady,' Selkirk told her. She blushed; the scientist has always been something of a lady's man, and he remains a bachelor despite his rich family and good looks. He keeps saying he's waiting for the right girl, but I think that's going rather too far. He's getting a bit old for the girls to be looking at him much. At any rate, Mrs. Judson's always flustered by him, and I don't blame her. She's just barely gotten over her husband's death of tuberculosis two years ago.

'Why can't you leave her alone for once,' I told him as we returned to the living room. He just shrugged.

'It's in my nature, I suppose,' he replied.

'Yes, I know, but Selkirk, her husband's only been gone two years... they were quite close.'

His eyes widened. 'Really? I had no idea, Dawson. I shall cease and desist at once. Perhaps I shall never have the courage to apologize, but the least I can do is have some respect for the dear departed. Why didn't you tell me?'

'I... thought you knew,' I admitted. 'I thought perhaps Basil told you.'

'Well, he didn't.'

'I am so sorry for that, Selkirk. It was all a mistake, you know.'

'Oh, don't beat yourself up about it, Doctor,' he said amiably. 'Well, Basil, ready to meet me in another go-round?'

'No,' my colleague replied in a dull voice. 'I shall never play the game again.'

'Now don't you go sayin' that, Mr. Basil,' Mrs. Judson admonished him, arriving at last with a tray of steaming crumpets and a pot of tea. 'You're jolly good at chess, it'd be a shame for you to go givin' it up like that.'

'Set it down there, Mrs. Judson, there's a good dear,' Basil instructed, swiping a crumpet from the tray and biting into it without a moment's hesitation, his funk seemingly forgotten in the wake of the fine spread before him. Relieved, I too helped myself to a cup of tea and a crumpet.

'So Basil, I've been meaning to ask you,' Selkirk said, reaching for a teacup himself, 'what labyrinthine cases are you busy solving these days?'

I wish he hadn't asked. Lately, Basil has not been working on a single case. London has become silent as a tomb, or at least it has seemed thus in the past weeks. No one has come forward to ask the famous detective's advice, and this lack of activity has been driving my companion mad.

But to my surprise, Basil answered him with an uncharacteristic lack of rancor. 'None at the moment, my good man, but we are hoping that situation will change soon. Not,' he added hastily, 'that we are eager for more crimes, but, well... chess does grate on one's nerves after a time. I would not mind a challenge; I don't feel we've gotten one since we defeated Ratigan all those years ago, do you, Dawson?'

I scratched my head behind my ear a moment, contemplating him. 'Perhaps they weren't challenges to you, Basil, but I thought that string of robberies down in Soho...'

'Yes, there was that,' he conceded, grudgingly. 'But on the whole it's been irritatingly quiet. Why, at times I find myself almost missing that rat!'

'Ah...' Selkirk reached over to pat Basil's shoulder consolingly. 'It's no good getting rid of a nemesis so early in your career, is it? Makes the rest of your life seem so... pointless.'

'Exactly!' Basil jabbed the air with a finger. 'If only—'  A knock at the door interrupted him. 'If only that's not some hysterical girl babbling about lost jewels,' Basil grumbled, but rising from his seat nonetheless to answer it. We heard him speaking in low tones to whoever was at the door, we could only catch a glimpse of a dark shadow from where we were, and then Basil brought the visitor into the living-room.

He was relatively dark of fur, with dark eyes, sporting a more impressive beard than Selkirk's. The stranger wore a long tailcoat and fancy black trousers over a white shirt; he carried a silk top hat under one arm, this making him appear rich. Whether he was indeed so, I could not be sure.

Basil, as usual, was. 'My partner Doctor David Q. Dawson, my good friend Selkirk, this chap is a Mr Joseph Zisman, of Central European origin to judge by his accent, just come from the Whitechapel district.'

'Whitechapel? Him?' Selkirk exclaimed.

'Yes,' the stranger said. 'My family has done well, it is true, but many others still linger in poverty there. We stay, for their sakes.'

'He is,' continued Basil, 'a jeweler and gem-cutter. I assume your reason for consulting me is related to your business?'

'How did you know?' Zisman asked.

'My dear man, if you wish to conceal your occupation, I would suggest brushing the gem-dust from your overcoat. Really, something as elementary as that…'

'Mr Zisman,' I interrupted, for it seemed apparent that Basil was momentarily distracted from the task at hand, 'just what is it you need from Basil?'

This seemed to break my companion from his trance. 'Yes, do sit down, have a cup of tea, and tell us your story. Perhaps you can provide us with something more interesting than missing jewels… we can only hope, eh?'

The Hebrew came round and sat in one of the chairs by the fire. Mrs Judson, though aging, still had a good ear for new guests, and was quickly on hand to take his coat. He gave her a grateful smile and turned to the trio of us, who were waiting on the edges of our seats; even Basil was sitting up straight instead of in his usual slouch.

'Right. This whole wretched affair started about a fortnight ago, when a wealthy-looking chap came into my shop. I mean to say, _really_ wealthy; most of my clients have a good bit of extra money lying about. Anyhow, he had a look round, asked a lot of questions, then came right out and asked me if I'd got "the sapphire." That's exactly the way he put it, Mr Basil: "the sapphire," as though I already knew what stone he meant. Well, I showed him the gems I had, but he looked me square in the eyes and said if I didn't get him the stone within a week, his master would make life very difficult for me.

'Naturally I was frightened. I went to the police and gave them the fellow's description. Finally an inspector was able to tell me he was Lyle Connelly, a servant in the employ of a certain Count Branoff, but when I went to the count's country house, the butler told me there had never been a Connelly working there. He let me in to see the count anyway.

'The count denied the man had ever worked for him, too; there was nothing else I could do but leave well enough alone and hope for the best. Not long after I'd gone to see Branoff, something seemingly unrelated happened. My business partner, Hershel Adler, went missing, along with several of our most expensive gems. But Mr Basil, I know my partner, and he would never do anything like that.'

'You never know,' put in Basil darkly. 'Go on.'

'Oh, er… very well. Some days after Hershel went missing, the police were still digging around the shop and the neighborhood for clues. It wasn't very good for business, inspectors hanging around as they were. Then a second disappearance happened: my study partner was gone, out of the blue, and had apparently taken some of our synagogue's valuable silver pieces.

'Well, I can't help feeling as though I've had a hand in this. I'm convinced it had to do with the visit I had from that sinister little chap, but I can't see what on earth I ought to do about it. That's why I'm here, Mr Basil.'

Basil was frowning, and I knew what that look meant. It wasn't his pensive expression, but rather, his irritated one. He was disappointed in the seeming simplicity of the case, but really, I could see no way he could get out of it short of being rude, something I wasn't prepared to allow. He knew that, too; perhaps that was why he looked so put-out.

'Right, Mr. Zisman, I don't think there's anything else you can tell us... we'll contact you with any major updates. All right?' I could tell Basil was furious, because he became even more abrupt than usual. We couldn't have that.

'Oh, do stay, Mr. Zisman, Basil's housekeeper makes marvelous cheese crumpets...' I offered; the visitor nodded his consent and took one of the teacups from the tray. 'I don't know if you'd eat them, seeing as they aren't officially sanctioned or...'

I trailed off, not wanting to make a further complete fool of myself than I already had. I was not accustomed to dealing with Hebrews; on the contrary, I had thought them all disease-ridden, poor, and foreign. Mr Zisman seemed none of these things, and I must admit to being nonplused.

'Why thank you,' he said, seeming pleasantly surprised. 'But I wouldn't want to refuse your kind hospitality, or your kind housekeeper,' Zisman added as Mrs. Judson bustled into the room. She did have one of those faces you instantly trusted.

As she was pouring more tea, Basil leaned close to me to whisper, 'You win this round, Dawson. He can stay for tea, but then he leaves. After all, he's wasted enough of our time.'


	2. Memories in Blue

CHAPTER 2.

After Zisman had gone, Basil showed Selkirk the door as well, then came back to the living-room and began pacing. Back and forth, back and forth, lighting his pipe as he went, the smoke trailing along behind him and infusing the room with a faint smell of allspice.

"I say, Basil, what are you doing? You can't possibly think the case is quite that simple…"

"I don't," Basil said shortly. "In fact, we may find it rather more complex than we originally supposed. But first, we must get more details."

"About the missing—?"

"No. About the sapphire."

"You know what it is?" I was astonished, as I am so often with my illustrious friend.

"I have some idea. You may recall, some months ago, when an elderly gentleman called upon us to consult us in a matter of foreign affairs… I believe you titled it "The Prussian Principality"? By the way, Dawson, the titles you give our adventures are really atrocious."

"By all means, Basil, you're free to suggest your own," I retorted.

"No, no, my dear chap, you know I haven't got the right temperament… Oh, don't look so down in the mouth, they're quite all right as far as detective stories go. Anyway, you remember it?"

I did remember, quite well. It had been a blustery winter day, and Basil and I were holed up against the weather. Basil was tinkering around with his machines and chemicals, and I was reading the latest edition of the Oxford medical journal, which contained a reprint of one of my own articles. There came a sudden commotion just outside the door, and we rushed out to the street to find an elderly fellow, suffering from deep gashes on his face and neck. We brought him inside and when he had got over his shock, he told us he had been mugged.

He further explained that he was foreign minister of Germany, on holiday in London for a fortnight. His traveling companion, an emissary from the Ottoman sultan, had gone missing, and the Prussian had come to ask Basil to locate him, which he did with the customary alacrity. However, along the trail we had uncovered a separate, tangled plot involving the crown jewels of Romania. I am still not entirely clear on what the connections were, but from what I understood, the Turk was in fact a spy working incognito in the Rumanian court. He had been entrusted with the crown jewels until the coronation of the new royal couple, but had since been treating them with light-fingered contempt. The jewels, so far as I knew, were still scattered throughout Europe, probably gathering dust in the collection of some private collector. Among them had been the sapphire about which Basil now spoke, apparently a magnificent specimen, celebrated on the continent and here in Britain. How such a small kingdom as Rumania came to possess it, I shall never know.

At present I became aware that Basil was speaking to me, so I hastened out of my reminiscences.

"I believe the mysterious gem is none other than the specimen which rightfully belongs to the Rumanian monarchy."

"But what makes you so certain?" I asked.

"Two facts, Dawson. First, our client Mr Zisman is of Rumanian descent, and whether he is misleading us on some count or merely neglecting to mention an important point, I have a feeling he may have more to tell us. Secondly, that sapphire is the only sapphire in the world that could merit such singular interest in its whereabouts. It is far superior to any other of its kind in size, clarity, and color."

I nodded. "So are we to go on the trail of the sapphire then?"

"I started from the wrong end of the trail last time, a mistake which I do not intend to make again. The disappearances may be coincidences, they may not be, but almost certainly those who are interested in the sapphire are dangerous, and it would behoove us to find them first."

"What will be our first step?" I asked, for I was nearly as eager to begin as I imagined my friend was. Several months of relative inaction had begun to grate on me as well.

"To start, I shall have to make some inquiries on my own. However, you can still be of some assistance. It couldn't hurt to know more about the disappearances. Go to Scotland Yard and see what you can wheedle out of the inspectors there. Let's meet up back here at seven o'clock. Now don't get caught up with niceties, Dawson."

"No Basil," I said, smiling. "I'll be here on the hour." As I got up to leave though I couldn't help reflecting that Basil was something of the pot calling the kettle black. I could recall many times when he had been late, very late to a rendezvous. But it wasn't something one pointed out, not to the world's greatest detective. Even I, who spent so much time with Basil, at times was intimidated by him.


	3. The Bronze Raven

As Mouse Avenger kindly pointed out, I seem to have acquired a character that isn't mine and isn't available for fanfiction either. So I've made up my own inspector who will serve just as well, it's only a minor role anyway.

* * *

CHAPTER 3.

Inspector McFarlane, Basil's and my sometime associate, sometime adversary, was waiting for me at the entrance to Scotland Yard, and upon seeing me he rushed forward and clasped my hand warmly.

"Ah, good doctor, how excellent to see your face here again! The inspector who was put on the case is sick with worry and even my superiors are anxious to see it laid to rest. We can do with the least bit of scandal possible."

"But surely you're not afraid of scandal from a few disappeared West Enders? Don't mean they're unimportant, but in the eyes of the public…"

McFarlane smiled sadly. "I'm afraid things have taken a very bad turn, Doctor. After your note arrived, I received another telegram from Inspector Blythe. Hershel Adler was found dead just a block from the Yard."

"Our client's business partner?"

"Yes. And in his pocket, we found this."

He handed me a small, heavy object, and I turned it over and over again in my paws. It was a miniature figurine of a raven, cast in bronze, its surface dull and in need of polishing. Presently Inspector McFarlane asked of me, "Does it mean anything to you, Doctor?"

"Not a thing," I replied. "How exactly was he killed?"

"We're not entirely sure— the symptoms are unclear, but we suspect some kind of poison."

"I assume the doctor on the case is Shackleton?"

"That it is," came a loud voice behind me. Unnoticed by either of us, Lansbury Shackleton had come into the room. Shackleton resembled Basil in many respects, being thin and long of face, but was considerably less dour. He was also in the habit of wearing a hat even indoors, to hide his missing ear. He had lost this in the Afghan war. We had served in the same army medical unit in those days.

"My dear Doctor Dawson! To what do we owe this greatest of pleasures? You haven't been ensnared in this wretched affair, I hope?"

"I'm afraid so, Shackleton," I replied. "The inspector was just telling me of the murder."

"Poor chap. No idea what he died of. His body was cold by the time we found him. No marks on the body, no sign of foul play at all."

"Then why do you even suspect it?"

"I expect because of the circumstances. He'd been missing, then out of the blue his body—which his physician informs us had been in the best of health—turns up dead. It just seems fishy."

"Quite so… might I have a look at the corpse myself?"

But there was no need to ask, for not a moment later someone wandered into the room. Shackleton's face suddenly went slack and gray, and he looked as though he might faint.

"But… it can't be! It's Adler!"

I felt a thrill of fear grip my spine. "Hersel Adler, Zisman's business partner?"

"Who's he?" the stranger asked.

"Don't be thick, man!" Shackleton snapped. "_You're_ Hershel Adler."

"Am I?"

"Perhaps amnesia?" I suggested. "What year is it?"

Adler hesitated, then answered, "Nineteen hundred and six."

"Not total amnesia then."

"No-o…" Shackleton was still adjusting to his error; discovering one has wrongly diagnosed a living person as deceased must wreak considerable havoc on one's psyche.

"Well, there's nothing to be done now then. I can't tell much from someone who's apparently hale. If you gentlemen don't mind, I must get word to Basil at once. Shackleton, you know what's to be done with amnesiacs, kindly wire me with any changes."

With that I left Scotland Yard. The day was warm, the kind of warmth that clings to one's fur and makes every exertion twice as difficult as usual. Basil had not yet returned when I arrived at Baker Street, but Mrs. Judson was there to let me in.

"Any word from Basil?" I asked her.

"No, but that Hebrew's back again. He won't speak to anyone but you or Basil though."

Greatly puzzled I went into the living room. Zisman was sitting hunched over a cup of tea like Atlas with the weight of the world borne on his shoulders. When he saw me his face brightened, if only briefly.

"Doctor, thank heavens you're here! I simply didn't know what to do."

"What's happened?" I asked, already dreading what the answer might be.

"it's my wife, Doctor Dawson— she's gone missing!"


End file.
